


Winter 14, Year 2

by anomalousspace



Series: Doctor-Patient Privileges [4]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Domesticity, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousspace/pseuds/anomalousspace
Summary: Now that you think about it, Harvey hates crowds.





	Winter 14, Year 2

Winter catches you a little bit by surprise, a freak blizzard on the very first day of the season. You fight a rapidly forming drift in front of the farmhouse door, finally wrenching the door open just enough for you to slip inside, back into the warmth. You stack the crate you’re carrying on the table, shed your boots and coat, piling them on the tray by the door so as not to track snow all over the house, and peer out the window above them. Near-zero visibility.

As you look, long arms find their way around your waist from behind and a chin settles on your shoulder. Harvey.

“Get everything you needed done out there?” he asks.

“Yeah. Animals are fine; heaters are on and there’s plenty of feed in the barn and coop.” You cock your head toward the crate on the table. “Milk and eggs are in there. Yoba, you can’t see ten feet in front of your face outside. Honestly, it’s a good thing I added the fences. Kept me from getting turned around.”

“Made an executive decision while you were out that the clinic is staying closed today,” he says, next to your ear. “Anyone with any sense will stay in today anyway, and if someone really needs me they can call.”

“Benefits of being in charge,” you say, turning to face him. “I can’t get any work done in this either. What should we do instead?”

“Whatever we want,” he says, and bends just enough to kiss you. You slide your hands up his back, and are promptly interrupted by the growl of your own stomach. Ah, damn. You haven’t eaten yet today.

He pulls back and laughs. “Breakfast is up first, then.” And with that, he snags the crate of animal goods and carries it over to the kitchen counter.

You settle on the corner of the couch, contorted so you can watch Harvey over the back as he cooks. Since moving out here, he’s proven to be much more adept in the kitchen than his previous existence implied. Maybe it’s the access to fresh ingredients, maybe it’s that he’s cooking for two instead of one, or maybe it’s just that he’s  _ happier _ . You hope it’s at least partially the last.

Still in his green striped pajamas, Harvey pulls peppers, mushrooms, and a block of cheese out of the refrigerator, then starts whistling a jazz tune you recognize as his favorite while he chops the vegetables. He’s a competent enough whistler, not great but the song is clear enough. A smile stretches involuntarily across your face at the combination of the sight and sound. He just looks so  _ domestic. _

When he turns to pull a skillet out of the cupboard, he catches sight of you watching him and spins to face you.

“Planning on watching the whole time I’m cooking?” he asks mildly, a quirk of his mouth exposing his amusement.

You shrug. “Just wondering how somebody can go so quickly from heating up a TV dinner for every meal to cooking from scratch all the time.”

He dumps the peppers and mushrooms into the frying pan with a little oil and turns on the stove. “It’s a professional duty. If I don’t feed you healthy meals, Yoba knows what you’ll end up eating. My reputation is on the line if you don’t stay healthy,” he says, gesturing with a wooden spoon.

“Or maybe you’re just happy.”

Harvey ducks his head, but not before you see a glimpse of color spreading across his face and an almost suppressed smile. “Prove it,” he says, turning back to the stove to stir.

“I’ve heard that eyewitness testimony is very convincing in court.”

“I suppose you’ll have to take it up with the jury. I’m invoking my right not to self-incriminate.” Now he’s taken the pepper mushroom mixture out of the skillet, cracking 4 eggs in a bowl and whisking them together before pouring half into the hot pan.

As he continues to cook, folding peppers and mushrooms into one omelet and starting on the second, you rouse yourself from the sofa to start a pot of coffee and pull mugs and silverware out of the cabinets. By the time the food’s ready, so is the coffee, so you pour a mug for Harvey first and hand it to him, simultaneously stretching up on your tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek, before pouring one for yourself.

When you turn back towards the table, Harvey’s setting down two plates, one in front of each chair. He settles himself in one chair, and gestures for you to sit in the other. You comply.

“Eggs are a good source of essential nutrients, so eat up,” he says, picking up his fork in his right hand. “Like I said, a professional duty.”

You roll your eyes, smiling, then take a bite. It’s good, cheesy in a way that you know his plate is definitely not. Not for the first time, you wonder.

“What’s your deal with cheese anyway?” you ask around a mouthful, swallowing before you continue. “I used to think you must be lactose intolerant until I saw you eat cereal.”

“Pretty sure it’s psychosomatic, especially since I can tolerate it in some contexts. I ate cheese as a kid but stopped after my third grade class took a field trip to a dairy and saw it being made.” He pauses to take a bite, considering his next words. “It’s really just controlled spoilage and that’s what bothers me. The idea that it’s milk that’s sat out a long time.”

You look at him silently, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, alright,” he says, flustered and slightly embarrassed. “Pickles and wine may both be a little similar. But at least they didn’t come out of an udder. And they actually taste good.”

He returns to his omelet, stabbing a bite with his fork with a little more gusto than is perhaps necessary.

“I’m only teasing, dear,” you say softly. “Also, have I ever told you you’re cute when you’re embarrassed?”

Harvey looks back up at you, a sheepish smile on his face, and his free hand finds yours from across the table. You squeeze, just for a moment, then concentrate again on your food.

When both plates are empty, you gather them up to load into the dishwasher, doing the same for the frying pan, spoon, and spatula. Closing the dishwasher, you hop up to sit on the counter and regard Harvey, still sipping the remains of his coffee at the table.

“Seriously though, anything you wanna do on your newfound day off?” you ask.

“Hmm.” He rests his elbow on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand. “I got that Coltrane biopic from the library in Grampleton last week. Possibly work on painting that new model if the glue’s dry. You?"

“Think I might go back to bed for a bit. Sleeping in occasionally is one of about two things I miss from city life.”

“What’s the other?”

“Late night showings at the movies.” You pause for a moment. “Tell you what: how about this morning, I take a nap, you work on your plane, and then this afternoon we can watch the movie together?”

“Sounds good to me,” he says, and you slide off the counter and pad past him back to the bedroom to change into pajamas, ruffling your hand through his disheveled hair on the way.

*****

The remnants of a bowl of popcorn sit on the coffee table as credits play on your old television set. You’re draped over Harvey on the couch, head on his shoulder, legs sprawled across his lap. His hand winds in your hair, gently twisting it around his fingers.

“Hey Harv?” you ask, quietly.

“Mmmm?”

“What do you wanna do for your birthday this year?”

He shifts, looking down at you and then away. His hand continues to fidget with your hair, something slightly more fraught than before.

“Whatever you want will be fine,” he says, but there’s a false note to it that’s almost hidden but not quite.

“It’s just… I know how you feel about too many people at once. I don’t want to plan something for you that you won’t enjoy.”

He sighs. “I can get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“I know,” you reply, before stretching up a bit and pressing a kiss to the side of his nose. “And I love that you’re willing to go to festivals with me anyway. But it’s  _ your _ birthday. What do you actually want?"

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I’d like to spend the day with you. Just you.” His fingers move to the nape of your neck, rubbing softly over the skin there. “But I think last year may have let the proverbial genie out of the bottle with Maru. She’s already asked me about” -- here he gives an exaggerated shudder, clearly for your benefit -- “a  _ party. _ ”

You sit in silence for a few moments, thinking, as Harvey’s hand traces patterns on your skin. Then it comes to you.

“What if we just knock off for the day?” you ask, sitting up to look at him properly. “Go somewhere, just us.”

His hand stills. “Go where?”

You cast about in your brain for a suitable place. “Zuzu? You’ve talked about wanting to go to that jazz bar, plus the air and space museum finally opened last week…”

“You realize,” he says slowly, “that’s a touch long of a drive for a day trip.”

“So we make a weekend of it. Leave Saturday, spend two nights in a hotel, come back Monday.”

“I could close the clinic that day, I suppose. No appointments scheduled on the 15th anyway.” He’s quiet, you might say contemplative. “The animals, though?”

“Pretty sure I can convince Shane to stop by. For friendship or just for love of chickens, one or the other.” You’re excited, honestly. But you carefully school your face into composure. You want this to be something he  _ wants _ to do, not something to make you happy. “No crops I have to tend in winter either.”

He shrugs. “Okay, let’s do it.” But his pretense of indifference is betrayed by a slow smile spreading ear to ear across his face. 

“Yeah?” you ask, wanting to be sure.

“Yeah,” Harvey replies, and kisses you. It’s tender and gentle, his lips barely grazing yours before pulling back away. A thought strikes you.

“The party last year,” you start, a little hesitantly. “I hope - was it too much? Overwhelming? I didn’t - I wouldn’t have done it if I thought you’d be uncomfortable.”

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, tightening his hold on you. “Oh, I was uncomfortable. But it wasn’t that. It was because I kept wondering what it meant that you threw me a party. And hugged me. And walked me home. And kissed me.” He pauses, laughs again, more subdued this time. “I suppose that last started to clear things up, but it definitely took more convincing. Anyway, there wasn’t any room in my brain that night to be uncomfortable with crowds.”

“To be fair, I didn’t have any idea what I was doing until after you invited me up.”

“I was  _ positive _ it was just wishful thinking and you’d leave me to take matters into my own hands. Or maybe take a cold shower, depending.”

“Seems like it worked out. In my opinion, at least,” you say, brushing an errant strand of his hair away from his eyes.

Harvey chuckles. “Better than I had any right to expect,” he says, looking at you intently.

You tilt your head up to capture his lips in yours, the hand that was preoccupied with his hair shifting to cup his cheek. Harvey hasn’t shaved today; neither of you even changing out of pajamas into regular clothes with nowhere to go. His face is rough under your palm.

The kiss lingers, and Harvey deepens it, persuading your mouth open with his tongue. He tastes like popcorn, on top of the familiar flavors of coffee and a taste that you can never quite describe, but have come to recognize as uniquely his.

You both dawdle like that for a while, you essentially sitting in his lap, his hand at the nape of your neck and yours cupping his face, before Harvey makes the first move. He shifts, holding you, easing you back onto the sofa cushions before maneuvering himself over you, propped up by his elbows.

He leans in, finding your lips again, the roughness of his cheek against your face. You notice that your hands have come up to grip at his shoulders, one sneaking up underneath the loose material of his shirt, but you can’t pinpoint when exactly you moved. You wriggle underneath him, a goal in mind, and succeed in moving your trapped legs just enough for him to slot between them.

You can feel him then, hard against you through the layers of thin fabric, and it sends a jolt of heat up your spine. You rock your hips, grinding against him, which earns a low moan from him, muffled against your skin. He quickly turns his attention back to your mouth, though, so you try again, slower this time, prolonging the contact. Resolutely, he doesn’t react. So it’s like that this time.

You try to get your hands between you to touch him but he grabs them and maneuvers, pinning them to the couch above your head with one of his. Increasingly desperate, you hitch a leg around his and rut against him. Concentration broken, he stills, groaning, and then turns his attention to your neck, trailing kisses and nipping from just beneath your chin to the neckline of your shirt.

While your mouth is free, you take the opportunity.

“Harvey,  _ please,” _ you breathe.

“Please what?” he asks, then trails his tongue along the exposed part of your collarbone.

“You  _ know _ what.”

“Say it.” His voice is low, an octave beneath his usual register.

_ “Touch me.” _

The dam breaks, and he’s loosing your hands and rucking up your shirt with his, sliding down to nuzzle at your breasts. Your hand moves to tangle in his hair as he takes your taut nipple into his mouth, laving across it with the flat of his tongue and then sucking, pinching the other between his fingers. He continues to work his way down your body, pressing kisses to the bottom of your ribcage, your navel, the top of your hipbone, before scooting back to pull off your drawstring pajama pants, underwear too.

You watch as he leans in close. You can feel his breath, warm and close between your legs, but he stops before making contact and looks at you, wordlessly asking for permission. He always does this, as though some part of him, deep down, still can’t believe you want to be there.

“Yes.  _ Please,” _ you say, and then his mouth is on you.

He’s done this before and  _ damn, _ has he gotten good at it. You watch as he works, fingers tangled in his hair, pressing him up against you, as his tongue swirls around your clit. He’s paid attention, all the times you’ve been together, and distilled your reactions until he knows exactly what makes you react. A tightness starts to gather in you, like a spring being stretched, wound up, ready to snap back into place upon release. You close your eyes and let your head fall back, focusing on the sensation, panting. He adjusts, relocating your leg over his shoulder so he can press even harder against you, the corners of his glasses digging into your skin.

That tension in your gut is almost unbearable now and you whine involuntarily. Harvey flattens his tongue against your clit and the spring releases, arching off the sofa and against his mouth as you come with a low keening noise, hands tightly wound in his unkempt hair.

He persists as you ride out the aftershocks and just when you think you can’t take it anymore pulls back, moving back up your body to kiss you on the mouth once again. You can taste yourself on his lips, mingling with his own indescribable flavor.

Wordlessly, you attempt to rid him of his own clothes, pulling at his drawstring pants fruitlessly before tackling the buttons of his shirt instead. He chuckles and takes pity on you, standing to shuck off his own clothes and then settling back between your legs on the couch.

You can feel his cock against your stomach, hard and hot and pulsing with his heartbeat and you wriggle, trying to help him line up and  _ get on with it. _ His lips find yours again in the motion and then he’s pressing into you, releasing the itch that’s been building all day.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against your skin, shifting his head to kiss your neck.

You’re having a hard time forming words to respond, eventually settling instead for wrapping your legs around him and digging your nails into his back. He groans, low and loud, and takes the hint, settling into a rhythm, hard and fast.

Your heels press into his back and he captures one leg with his arm, shifting it over his shoulder and pressing in deeper than before. The spring in your gut, still sensitive from before, begins to tighten again, ratcheting tighter and tighter as this new position grinds, just barely, against your clit.

A thin sheen of sweat covers Harvey’s face, dampening his hair just above the ears, and whispers pour out of him, some intelligible, some not. You catch a few phrases -  _ so tight, so good, so close  _ \- and each one sends a jolt through you that gets you closer to your own peak.

_ “Please”  _ he moans, and the tension breaks, spring snapping back violently once again to its natural position, shocks of pleasure undulating across your body out from a place deep inside.

As you clench around him, Harvey stiffens, then thrusts one, two, three more times before his movements turn erratic and he loses himself, pulsing inside you, your name on his lips in a harsh whisper before collapsing onto you and burying his face in the sofa cushion next to your head.

You wait for him to come back to himself, whispering praises in his ear. He lifts his head, almost imperceptibly, and you press a kiss to his shoulder before he withdraws from you, snatching a tissue from the box on the edge of the coffee table and using it to clean up a bit.

There’s not much room on the couch for this, but he lays back down next to you anyway, pressing you back into the back cushions in his own attempt not to fall off the edge.

“Well?” he asks.

“Wonderful, as always,” you reply. He often needs to hear you say it. You think otherwise his insecurities take over.

You tilt your head to kiss him and he nearly falls off the sofa, barely catching himself with one hand on the arm of the thing above your head. Laughing, you sit up, motioning for him to sit against the arm of the sofa so you can lean against him.

His arm wraps around you and you twine your fingers with his.

“I think it should blizzard more often,” you say.

He laughs and kisses the top of your head.

“I think you’re right.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me a bit in the writing.
> 
> My intention is to continue it, but I'm not sure exactly yet where it goes from here.


End file.
